Why I'm Not a 'Feminist'

I am concerned with issues which affect and hurt my fellow woman kind. I am deeply emotionally and intellectually invested in the social discourse which keeps females bound up in uncomfortable confines; the glaring rules which state a woman has no worth unless she fits the physical and behavioural mold this cruel world has undertaken to construct. (You only need to read my former blog posts to see this) However –I cannot call myself a FEMINIST. This is because this title has become a dirty word with connotations that leave me overly perturbed. If it ever used to be, it is now not simply a noble description of any person who is concerned with promoting the value of the fairer sex. It is now synonymous with assimilating base human characteristics, gender division and male bashing. Feminist writer Germaine Greer spoke my feelings well when she lamented that the ‘feminism’ of today is not what feminists of her generation wanted. The ‘feminism’ of today has women trying a bizarre role reversal and appropriating men’s worst behaviours in a game of anti-social one-upmanship. Girls are increasingly binge drinking, displaying promiscuous behaviour and acting ‘laddish.’ Germaine and her peers didn’t want this –women emulating classless men- they wanted women to be able to be something better. I can only find a strange ‘two wrongs don’t make a right’ unease when I see how women who feel they are displaying a righteous contemporary feminism express it. This feeling followed a comment made by one of my university lecturers who is a respected Spanish feminist. She was speaking about misconceptions and stereotypes. “People think because I’m a feminist I must not have a boyfriend,” she said. “Well I do. Y tiene un culo esplendido.” (meaning– and he has a fantastic bum!). The class of young women laughed and I even heard one encourage “Go on girl!” The hypocrisy of the situation almost physically hurt my tender heart. Imagine if a male lecturer were to say that about his female lover! There would be outrage. Yet a woman can reduce her male partner to his taught gluteus Maximus and it’s an acceptable joke. I know this type of thing is a response to the humiliating sexist belittling women have endured since the beginning of forever, but copying what men have done doesn’t make anything better. It spits on the whole point of what I thought feminists originally wanted –both genders being treated with equal value and respect.

Here is a perfect further example of things which justify my perturb-ment. A song parody currently being promoted by a trio of irked feminists. R’n’B crooner Robin Thicke has had a popular single out called Blurred Lines. The song has a video of naked models prancing around and lyrics which talk about a woman as a helpless sexual creature. In response to Mr Thicke’s objectifying ditty, three law students from Auckland created a female version humiliating men. They talk of ‘emasculating’ the man and proceed to slap the bums of hunky males wearing briefs. Why must your ‘feminism’ be about emasculating and denigrating men? There is nothing noble or intellectual about that. It’s an immature game of getting men back by trying to do to them what the worst of them have done to us currently and historically. It’s all so silly. This topsy-turvy faux-feminism malarkey. That’s why I can never call myself a ‘feminist.’

The love I have to give may be too much for you.

The love I have to give may be too much for you. It will bend you out of shape. You won’t recognise yourself once it has entered into your tiny little world, spoiling everything like a hurricane. It will sweep away the silly things you used to hold dear. And the silly thoughts you kept like twine strung around your half dormant mind. It will fill you and frighten you. It will ruin you and make you all at once. It will show you that though you held much in your hands, you were simply a pauper. And blind. And deaf. And dead. And pitiable. It will make your colours brighter. It will force you to hear the minutiae of the universe’s music. You will be over-awed. It will destroy everything you thought you knew and everything you thought you were and leave you without foundations, no walls, no handles to hold on to. Just it and you, slowly merging and reforming; like larvae eating up the death held in rotting limbs. I suppose I shouldn’t blame you for running from me. The love I have to give you may be too much.